The Lake Isle
by pearypie
Summary: Once upon a time, Ciel Phantomhive loved Elizabeth Midford but the fire destroyed his softer emotions. The boy who once was could not exist in this world anew and so, to continue on his family's legacy—borne from ash and smoke—he allowed himself to be soaked in cyanide and bathed in belladonna. [A character study of the Earl of Phantomhive and the boy who bears the title.]
If there's ever a girl he loves, it's her. The Earl of Phantomhive may have been robbed of his promised youth but the sweet smiles of _her_ hold fast in his mind. Once upon a time, the Queen's Watchdog would have smiled and called her _love_ and _darling_ and _wife_. Once upon a time, before funeral pyres and veiled aberrants, his heart was open and he smiled freely. Once upon a time, Ciel Phantomhive loved Elizabeth Midford but the fire destroyed his softer emotions. The boy who once was could not exist in this world anew and so, to continue on his family's legacy—borne from ash and smoke—he allowed himself to be soaked in cyanide and bathed in belladonna.

When he awoke, only the Earl remained.

(It's _true._ )

* * *

The Phantomhive library rested in tranquil peace. The Earl sat behind his great mahogany desk, paperwork organized neatly in columns of three as he went through each and every document with methodical decisiveness. His surcoat was a deep cobalt today, darker than sapphire but still brilliant to the eye. His heavy black fountain pen weighted down his signatures and left sharp, cutting remarks on proposed business mergers. A cup of tea sat in solemn gravity by his right hand, perfuming the air with bergamot and soft spice.

He paused, setting down the fountain pen. With practiced grace, the saucer and teacup were lifted and a sip of finely brewed earl grey was taken. _Ah._ The young noble smirks. _He's called upon the French for my afternoon drink._ Across from him, seated in an unusually quiet manner, was the Lady Elizabeth of the sunshine curls and vivacious charm. She rested on a phthalo blue settee embroidered with cloth-of-gold stitching, her rose pink gown contrasting prettily to the dark backdrop—a sunlit cathedral in all its glory.

"Elizabeth." Ciel set down his teacup. "What are you reading?"

She looked up then, startled but happy that he had broken the too still silence. "Yeats." She beamed brightly. "His new poem, recently published in the _National Observer._ Have you heard of it? It's all so beautifully gentle but something about it feels heavy."

The young earl raised a brow. "Heavy? He's a symbolist, Elizabeth. Everything he writes is bound to have a secondary directive."

"I know." She said simply, voice temperate. "But there's still something…lonesome about this. Like—like seeing a cabin in the forest on a June morning. There is sunshine and blue sky and robins chirping about. But it's a solitary cabin, Ciel, all by itself in the great emerald woods. The trees are too tall but there's a rushing brook, all by itself too." She glanced down at the magazine in her hand. "I think he wanted comfort—but he was all alone."

Her words are painted with Raphaelite—all too vivid and beautiful for the dark earl to touch. Instead, he recoils—abruptly.

"We were born to be alone, Elizabeth. Each and every single one of us breathes for ourselves and no one else. Our lungs can support only one body, just as our minds can control one spirit."

"And what about the heart?"

He scowls, his angelic face cruel. "An organ prone to passions and thoughtlessness. Flights of foolish fancy." Ciel glances down at his documents. He doesn't want to reap the repercussions of his careless words.

The part of him that is the Earl of Phantomhive chides Ciel for his moment of weakness—why should you feel any pity? You're sparing her from future heartbreak, this is something to be championed. Chin up and tell it to her straight— _we will all die alone Elizabeth._ Ciel's lips are ready to say those vile words; to hurl them at her because _can't she see?_ He's not _whole_ anymore.

"Foolishness is but the jester's card." Elizabeth murmurs. "And all the world's a stage. Alone no one can put on the production but together, we can make an everlasting work." Her head is bowed, her smile frail. "I…I'm sorry for upsetting you Ciel but I think the heart cures more than the mind." And she has so much heart to give, Ciel thinks.

Emerald eyed and earnest—the icy shield round his heart shatters (though it'll heal by morning) when she pierces him with those jade green eyes. Wide and expressive—they show every emotion she's ever felt, every emotion she's feeling. She is a whirlwind of joy, sadness, anticipation, laughter, wanting, hope, despair—it nearly knocks the breath out of Ciel's lungs.

The Earl hates what he's about to do next. Hates the boy that refuses to die. The blue haired nobleman leaves his desk and all its rich splendor to walk across the library's carpeted floor, going to sit beside Elizabeth's hunched form.

"Lizzy." _I'm sorry. I didn't—I don't want you to become like_ ** _me_** _. I want you to be stronger than I was—I want you to be_ ** _happy_** _. I want you to remember how to laugh. How to **smile**. _

He says none of these things—but that one word is enough.

She beams at him like the spring sun, energy returning and melancholy vanquished. "Oh Ciel, you mustn't worry about such things! Why, I'll bet Mr. Yeats is quite happy in Ireland writing his next poem wouldn't you say? He can hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore." She smiles teasingly.

"Is that part of his new poem?"

Elizabeth nods, her golden curls bobbing. "Oh yes. It's called _Lake Isle of Innisfree_."

"And you've memorized it?"

"Oh yes I—" she bites her lip, hesitating ever so briefly. "It was such a beautiful poem, Ciel." Elizabeth says by way of explanation. "I think I rather love it."

 _Love._ And a delicate—almost ghostlike smile—appears on his mouth. It's a shadow of the smile he once possessed—the one owned by the boy who loved so easily. Who smiled for this golden girl before him without prompt or expectation. Because there is something luminous about Elizabeth. It warms whatever abscess he has instead of a heart, filling him with fond, foolish hope—the very thing he vowed to relinquish the day he chose revenge above every other sanctity.

He doesn't notice the way her eyes shine, the way her jaw clenches suddenly.

"Please Ciel. You won't think of sending me away now would you?" _Don't reject my love._

 _Never._

"Certainly not." He responds brusquely. "However did you come up with such an idea? Come now, it's nearly noon. Sebastian will have finished preparing dinner by now."

She blushed lightly. "Alright. But I shall need to use your telephone, Ciel." He gave her a questioning look, deepening Elizabeth's rosy flush. "I sent Paula home."

"You…wish for Paula to join us for dinner?" Well, he mused. Elizabeth was always a generous soul but this was a bit—

"I—what? No!" Elizabeth pouted, rather upset before his words registered. She drew in a sharp intake of breath. "You mean—I have an invitation to stay for dinner today?"

 _Don't do it._ The Earl hisses in his ear, warning him to stop before things escalated further. _Keep your mouth shut—send her away. Telephone Paula. Do what you must—_

"You're always welcome for dinner, Lizzy. And supper too if you wish it."

Her answering smile is brighter than the sun—and Ciel feels no remorse in giving her this brief moment of happiness.

* * *

The Earl has forgotten how to love—but the boy remembers. And somewhere, deep within the wretched caverns of Ciel Phantomhive's bruised and battered heart, there is a light—faint and dimming—but a light nonetheless. It calls out for the sun that shines so brightly, whose laughter brings forth tidal waves of _love_ and _warmth_ and _affection_ —chasing away the blackness with something purer and untainted.

There will always be the queen's demands and the problematic Reapers. There will always be pestilence in the air, haunting London's grey streets—yearning for the bloodshed of the innocent (if there's any left). As the Queen's Watchdog, there is little he can do except carry on, his faithful butler beside him, cloaked in Venus's guile and plunged full of Erebus's vice. To stand beside the demon that is his protector, he needs to become one and the same—unfeeling, uncaring, unrelenting. There is but one soul this demon craves and for all the damnable debasements of the world, it is this carnality that consumes _Sebastian_ wholly, entirely.

But Ciel will not let him have what he wants—not until the vendetta has been bled dry, until his mangled breath turns to ice.

He displays his armor with apathetic care, unwilling to show just how fragile he still is. He is all at once noble, servant, collector, and giver—a melange of roles that he must fulfill because this strange world calls for _order._ He's sacrificed his body for revenge and he'll give his soul to hell if it means getting what he wants. What he _deserves._

The Earl of Phantomhive cannot love. (But if he did, he'd love _her_ most of all.)

* * *

 **A/N: Another Ciel/Elizabeth drabble. Feedback would be lovely!**

 **\- "He called upon the French for my afternoon drink." Ciel's referring to his tea, noting that his usual brew of earl grey has been replaced with French Earl Grey (imbued with jasmine and rose petals). Wonder who did that.**

 **- _Lake Isle of Innisfree_ by William Butler Yeats was published in 1890 in the _National Observer_. Throughout the three quatrains, the narrator longs for the peace and tranquility of Innisfree while living in an urban setting. He recalls the island with fondness and yearning but in the end, remains where he is. **

**\- "And all the world's a stage" taken from William Shakespeare's _As You Like It._**


End file.
